


Bleeders of London

by scathach124



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Blood and Gore, F/M, Murder, Sweeney Todd references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scathach124/pseuds/scathach124
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years in exile, Matthew Crawley returns to London to his wife Mary, but neither of them are about to forgive the wrong that has been done to them by Judge Talbot. With him in his shaving parlour and her in her pie shop, though, a serving of revenge can easily be had.</p>
<p>*Inspired by Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return to London

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! First off, I'm going to put it out there that, yes, this is a very bizarre idea that probably should not exist. It stems from my adolescent fascination with Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, as well as my frustration with the last season of Downton Abbey. I know I'm going with the Henry-Talbot-is-a-complete-jerk in The Chance to Escape, but this scenario is more cathartic for me. I started with a couple of manips on my Tumblr, which got me thinking that I should write the complete story.
> 
> It's going to follow a similar premise to Sweeney Todd (specifically the Sondheim musical), so obviously this is going to be pretty dark (and needless to say bloody). And I realize that most if not all characters are going to be somewhat OOC, but again, this is more like catharsis for me, and a chance to do something fun. Who doesn't want to see their OTP go a little dark at times, eh? Especially when they've been horribly wronged.
> 
> So read and review, or tell me I'm crazy. Anything works.

The evening the ship docked in the harbour was leaden and foggy, as if it was already the dead of night. The few lights winking from the buildings barely penetrated the mist, and the outline of the ship was barely reflected in the inky Thames. Earlier that day, a drizzle of rain had descended upon the city, leaving the air damp and the streets laced with wide puddles. Tonight, there was not much in London that was prepossessing or welcoming to those on the ship. For many of them, this was the end of a very long journey, but this destination was not a happy place.

Disembarking from the ship, a tattered duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Matthew Crawley stepped onto the cobbled streets of London for the first time in years.

In all the years he had been gone, and he didn't like to think just how many they were, what had changed in this dank, dim city? Had the layout of the streets been altered at all? Did stray dogs and alley cats still lurk down quiet streets, along with half-crazed beggars and streetwalkers?

The place should have felt like home to him. The smell of the streets near the docks, though unappealing, was once familiar to him, as was the faint tolling of the church bells marking the hour. And yet he did not feel that the sights in front of him were welcome. For as he stood in the street, the recollection of their arrangement slowly returning to his memory, he could feel a chill from ghostlike shadows lingering everywhere, including in the back of his mind.

A set of fingers tapped on his shoulder, but Matthew did not turn around. He knew who it was, and was unsurprised when the person asked, "Is everything alright, Mr Crawley?"

Matthew paused, still staring at the buildings and streets ahead. "I've been away from this place for far too long, Tom. Of course my mind is uneasy."

The face of Tom Branson, a sailor from Ireland, came into view. "I'd have thought you'd be pleased to be back in London. You used to live and work here, or did you tell me a lie?"

"I wasn't lying to you, Tom. This was my home," Matthew said, emphasizing the word 'was.'

Tom pivoted about, scanning the other side of the Thames and the buildings nearby as he turned. "I've been to so many places while sailing – plenty of cities included – but I can still say with confidence that there's no other place quite like London."

"No," Matthew said absently. "No, there's no place like London."

He turned to finally look Tom in the eye. "I think it's time we went our separate ways now," he told the sailor. "I must say, I have appreciated your companionship these last few weeks. I even think of you as my friend now."

Tom smiled. "I'm glad you feel that way, Mr Crawley, because I'm the same way with you."

"For goodness sake Tom, I told you to call me Matthew," Matthew said, though the good humour that should have been in his tone was missing.

"Alright then, Matthew. D'you think there's any chance of us meeting again soon?" Tom asked. "I can't be sure when I'll be called up again, but it could be any day, and I'd like to see you again, perhaps for a drink?"

Matthew hesitated. He knew that Tom meant well, and he was the sort of chap that needed connections in permanent places. But in the time to come he wasn't even sure if he'd have a proper place to live.

"Perhaps," he answered. "If that's what you want, you might find me. Around Fleet Street, I think."

"Do you have family down that way?"

Matthew had willingly spoken little about his past life to Tom, and on the occasion Tom had tried to bring it up Matthew cast his inquiries aside. "If they're still there. Which I doubt."

Tom nodded, tipping his cap to Matthew. "Then until later, Mr Cr- – er, Matthew. Time I found myself a room nearby."

And he went off down the street adjacent to the docks, in search of a warm bed to sleep in. After years of sleeping in cold discomfort, Matthew wanted that as well. But would he be able to find it, as he had told Tom, on Fleet Street?

Trusting himself not to get lost on his journey, he set off down a dimly-lit street, heading away from the docks. As he walked further into the heart of the city, all that he remembered of London slowly came back to him. He had feared that everything would be unrecognizable, but for the most part much was the same – if only grimier and darker, littered with filth at every corner. The lowest of the low leaned against brick walls covered with faded fly-posters and crouched inside archways, hands held out for a coin or a bit of bread. Street vendors struggled to sell what was left of their meagre wares. Rats scuttered in and out of gutters and broken pipes, and ragged children, much like rodents themselves, grubbed about for anything edible within the heaps of rubbish.

So many nights, while lying in a frigid cell, he had dreamt of his return to London, to his home, where he would be smiling at everything he saw and everything would smile back. But time had caused that dream, and any hope of coming back to a home, to wither away. He had actually dreaded returning, but there was one thing that had convinced him to come back.

As he walked down the familiar roads, glancing at the old storefronts and passing by the flickering street lamps, the real image of London emerged before his eyes. He had been naïve before, a fool to remember London as a golden city, filled with virtuous people, a world away from the evils that had cast him out. But now he realized what it truly was: a festering pit crawling with vermin and unfortunates, scraping to get by and survive in a decaying world.

When he passed first by the old St. Dunstan's church, then the imposing courthouse nearby, Matthew chuckled darkly to himself. A fat lot of good those were in this hellhole. What did God and the law do to help him, after all? And from the looks of the city, it had failed to do anything to help the rest of the poor inhabitants. No doubt the powerful still sat at the top, turning their backs to those in need – or worse, having a personal hand in destroying their lives.

Their greed was insatiable, so desperate to be fed constantly, and Matthew had absolutely no sympathy for them. There was simply no excuse those feeding those desires, especially if it was the less fortunate who suffered for it.

Engrossed in his morose thoughts, he continued to trudge silently down the streets, turning corners when his instinct told him to. He had hardly been in a good mood before, but walking through the great black pit called London, averting his stare from the degenerates sitting in the road and the vermin rolling by in their coaches, his disposition darkened substantially. The world he had returned to, along with the uncertainty of what the future held for him, left him with little optimism.

He started back to life when he reached a wide street, still being crossed by wagons and passerby. His gaze fell on one of the storefronts, reading the faded brown lettering on the woodwork above the door and windows. A single flicker of hope returned to his heart.

_Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop._

* * *

_One of the most well-regarded establishments for the sale of meat pies on Fleet Street was Mrs. Crawley's Pie Shop. The owner, the young but skilful Mary Crawley, produced veal and pork pies that were celebrated by everyone – high and low, rich and poor. When the shop opened at twelve noon, and then in the evening after tea, there was always such a rush to obtain the freshest ones. The patrons would partake in these delicious pies and chat with each other, and Mary Crawley would almost always be in a pleasant mood as she baked and served, and so it was a cheery place to be at the end of the day._

_Above this pie shop, reached by a set of outside stairs, was another shop, run by another Crawley. This was the establishment of Matthew Crawley, husband of Mary Crawley, and it was here that respectable men would stop by for a shave. It was never as bustling as the pie shop below, but it was of equally good renown, and Matthew Crawley was as skilled in his profession as his wife was in hers._

_These two people, working close to each other so they'd never be far away, were so deeply in love – their affection was honest and unfailing, never obsessive and scarcely troubled. They lived together in the flat next to the shaving parlour, and though they were hardly wealthy, it was as cozy and loving as any home could be in the heart of London. For some time they were trying to have a child, perhaps several afterwards, but even without a baby in their arms they were content with their lives._

_But everything changed for them when Judge Talbot entered the pie shop that one fateful evening._


	2. The Pie Shop

For what she reckoned was the hundredth night in a row, Mary Crawley stood at the counter in her shop, completely alone.

There was a tray of pies baking in the oven, and she was in the process of making another batch, but her shop was devoid of customers. It had been for several days – or was it weeks? Not that it was particularly disappointing to her, or even surprising; she was well used to it by now, though she sometimes dreamed of the days when customers would flock to her door and stuff themselves with her good pies and drink themselves silly on ale.

Those were the good days, she thought longingly, back when everything was rosy and the world didn't seem so grey.

Now here she was, a woman alone, with nothing to do but make pies that no one could swallow. She didn't blame them for that: to say that her pies were not very good would be understating it. To be perfectly honest, they were ghastly – the meat in them wasn't even real meat, or fresh meat when it was. There was a horrible scarcity of it nowadays, but even if there wasn't Mary wouldn't have been able to afford any fresh cuts. All that was in her pies was suet and a mishmash of other ingredients that, when combined, turned into a wet sloppy mass coloured like excrement. The crusts grew gritty and mouldy in an obscenely rapid amount of time

And then there was the state of her shop. Good heavens, even she hated stepping foot in it every day. Always a thin layer of dust and flour on every flat surface, sometimes getting in the mixing bowl and on top of pie crusts. She always swept the floor before she opened shop, but like the result of some magic spell the dust would inexplicably return. Overall, the whole place was dark and dreary, conveying a rather uninviting atmosphere, so even somebody who had no idea of the reputation of the shop avoided it solely on the account of the appearance.

She wasn't even going to think about the everlasting presence of insects.

So when she heard the bell on the door tinkle, Mary gasped loudly, starting awake from her tedious suet-slicing and nearly dropping her knife.

"A customer!" she exclaimed to herself.

She glanced quickly at the prospective customer, only enough to discern that it was a tall man, probably a traveller with his duffel bag, then turned around and started shuffling around the shelves behind the counter, searching for plates and a pie that didn't look too rotten. Afraid that the customer, upon seeing the shop up close, would turn tail and leave, she started babbling uncontrollably, which certainly wasn't like her at all. The excitement of finally having a customer in the shop, though, had turned her giddy.

"Sir! Sir, come in and sit down, sit wherever you like! I'll get you a pie and some ale as quick as I can. Don't worry, don't go anywhere, I've a batch made already."

Mary paused from her rambling for a split-second, spotting an insect crawling through the flour. Hardly flinching, she plucked it up and dropped it on the floor, crushing it with the heel of her shoe. Hopefully he hadn't seen that, she thought.

"It's been rough for business, I tell you," she went on as she rummaged through the drawers for a clean utensil. "Meat's practically a fantasy nowadays, but I do the best I can. Mind you, though, the taste might be a bit off, but that ale should wash it down alright."

She plopped a sufficient-looking pie (that is, a somewhat stale one) onto a plate and grabbed a mug to hold beneath the tap. Both her hands being full, she had to ignore the spider dangling from the rim. When the mug was full of substandard ale, she turned around to where the man was still standing to give him his refreshments.

"Here you are, sir. It's not Belshazzar's feast, but I suppose it'll do for—"

She cried out, the pie plate and ale mug clattering to the floor.

"Oh my God," she whispered shakily. "It can't be … Matthew!"

For a second she believed her eyes were deceiving her, but there could be no doubt in her heart that it was him. He no longer looked exactly as the young handsome man she had fallen in love with, but the way he looked at her as if she was his entire world was the same. All of the sleepless nights she had dreamed of seeing his face again, and now it was actually happening.

"Mary," Matthew breathed, the tattered duffel bag sliding from his shoulder down to the floor, as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing either.

Both of them at that moment surged forward and threw their arms around the other, lips crushing together in a messy but eager kiss. Anyone looking in through the grimy shop windows would have been appalled at their immodest display, but neither of them could care one bit about something like that. Too long both of them had been devoid of a loved one's touch, a heartfelt kiss, or just the hope that they'd ever see each other again.

"Oh my darling Mary," Matthew whispered, holding her head against his chest as he felt her arms encircle him, his fingers tangling themselves in her hair. "I never … I never imagined you'd still be here."

Her reply was muffled against his coat. "I never thought you'd come back."

"You thought I'd never return?" Matthew stepped back to look her in the eye, her eyes which were brimming with tears of joy. "You lost faith that I'd come home?"

Mary sighed. "I wasn't even sure if you were alive." Her smile appeared on her face again. "But you are! And you're home."

"I am," Matthew promised. "I'm home with you again."

Mary reached up and touched his cheek, as if still in disbelief that he was really there, holding her. "Honestly, you gave me such a fright just standing there. Thought you were a ghost," she said sheepishly.

Matthew laughed lightly. "Believe me, Mary, I'm real. I'm as alive as you are."

As Mary stepped back, still smiling through her tears, the heel of her shoe knocked against the fallen ale mug. She bent down to try and gather the remains of the pie off the floor, but the sticky pastry fell apart in her fingers. A roach had already come to inspect the paltry food, and Mary squashed it under the plate.

"I wish I had something better to offer you right now," she muttered, "and I don't have much more in my own stores."

Matthew grabbed the soiled washcloth from the counter and knelt to mop up the spilled ale, despite Mary's objections. He glanced at the pie remains with unmistakable disgust; it hardly looked like food, let alone what he knew Mary was capable of baking. "I sorely hope you don't eat this yourself."

"Not a lot of other people do, for that matter," Mary answered. "Haven't seen a customer for a long while. That's why I was so excited to see another human being standing in the shop." She took the ale mug and plate and tossed them in a washtub.

Matthew looked around the pitiful shop, trying not to inhale the pungent smell of mold and rotten animal fat. It was astounding how unrecognizable the shop was from the bustling restaurant of years past, packed from wall to wall with hungry patrons. Had Mary not been standing inside, he would have mistaken it for a different establishment altogether. And he could not understand why, talented as she was at her craft, Mary's pies hardly looked fit even for a pig's trough. He scanned the tray of already-made pies, but not a single one of them could tempt a starving beggar to steal them.

Seeing the way her husband looked at the tray of pies, Mary decided that it was not worth it keeping them out for prospective customers. She grabbed the ends of the tray and, opening the door to the street, lobbed everything out onto the cobblestones, both tray and pies.

"Who was I fooling? Nobody comes near this place anymore." Mary slammed the door shut and locked it. "I'm not helping myself by making pies that might as well be baked with shit."

"What's happened, Mary?" asked Matthew. "Is there a meat shortage in London?"

"Meat shortage, money shortage, good luck shortage – probably all of those at once," Mary sighed. She flicked a bug off the countertop, then began to pick up her bowls and knives and dump them in the washtub on the floor. "I haven't gotten my hands on a cut of fresh meat for a long time. Even the animals on the street aren't decent enough to go into a pie."

Matthew shook his head in dismay. "So all of your devoted customers abandoned you?"

"I can't blame them," Mary shrugged. "Either I've don't make any pies or what goes into them is revolting to even look at. They're probably the worst pies in London."

She gestured outside the window. "Down the street, not too far off, there's another pie shop run by a Miss Swire. Her business is good – at least, she gets more customers than I do." She frowned, a peculiar thought coming into her head. "Though it is a bit odd …"

"What?" Matthew asked.

"Haven't heard many cats lately," Mary said.

She and Matthew shared a look of revulsion at the thought of cat meat served up in a pie. The idea sounded only marginally better than baking festering suet into moulting pastry, but even if she was desperate for business, Mary decided it wasn't worth chasing a cat up and down Fleet Street and being able to make only a few pies – if one of the little mongrels could actually be caught.

"Come with me, darling," Mary said to Matthew. "Let's go to the flat, put something together that a human being can actually swallow."

Matthew followed Mary outside to the yard behind the pie shop and up the stairs. The landing on the second story led to two doors; one was the entrance to the little flat they had once shared, the flat that used to hold happy memories and dreams of a family. Matthew did not imagine it would be in the same state as he remembered it – clean and cozy and full of light – but now that he had returned perhaps he and Mary could bring it back to the way it was before, or very nearly. Perhaps they could piece together a life, not exactly as before, but something more substantial than what either of them had been living for the past few years.

Next to the other door was a barber's pole, the glass so caked on with dirt that the colours could barely be seen. There used to be a sign over that door as well, but it was gone – Mary must have removed it when she figured he wouldn't be back. From what he could see of the inside from the landing, Matthew saw that it was almost entirely bare.

Mary unlocked the door to the flat and motioned for Matthew to come in. "You should try and get a fire started, warm your bones. I'll see what I can—"

"No, not yet," Matthew objected gently. "Sit by me for a little while. Tell me what has happened all these years that we've been apart."

Mary froze, wringing her hands. "I don't know if I should," she said, "for your sake. It's so horrible to think about, and you've only just come back."

"I have to know," Matthew insisted. "I've waited for so many years, waited and wondered why we were brought to this. Please, tell me."

After a long moment of silence, Mary gestured to the set of chairs in front of the fireplace. "Alright then. I'll tell you everything. But none of it is going to be pleasant."


	3. Mary's Tale

Silence hung over the little flat for a few moments. Mary stood at the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil for tea, since she reckoned she might need a cuppa fairly soon. Matthew managed to get a fire started, and for the first time in a long while it seemed that the flat might finally be filled with warmth again. It felt strange to both of them that they were home together, but it felt right at the same time. It was a day both of them had waited for, even with only so much certainty that it would come about.

Matthew sat by the fire as he waited for Mary, leaning forward in his chair with his hands steepled beneath his chin. He knew that whatever Mary had to tell him about how she had come to such a dismal predicament would be far worse than unpleasant. He had the sense that a horrific wrong had been done to her: it was a feeling he had carried since he had been thrown onto the ship that transported him out of England. She was alone for so many years, and now almost completely destitute. Matthew was already fuming with anger at the thought that someone might have done something to Mary to leave her in this state – and he had his suspicions about who that might be.

Mary came to the fire carrying a tray with a teapot, two empty cups, and, rather an unexpected accompaniment, a tumbler of gin.

"Thought you might need it," Mary said to Matthew. She sat down in the chair across from him. "You're surely going to need it by the time we've finished here."

Matthew swallowed hard, wondering if he ought to reach for the tumbler of gin right now. "You mean with telling me what has happened since … since I was sent away."

Mary nodded. _Where to start?_ she wondered.

She knew most of Matthew's side of the story. She would never forget the day she and Matthew were out at the market, strolling past the stalls without a care in the world. She could even remember what the weather was like that day – so sunny and bright that it felt that they weren't in the heart of London. Everyone seemed so cheerful, their lives were serene.

She'd never have a shock so great as when she found Matthew being wrenched away from her by two constables, watching helplessly as he was dragged away without an explanation. That last time she had seen his face, bewildered and pleading uselessly, was etched forever in her mind.

"I'm guessing you have no idea as to why you were … sent away," Mary said.

Matthew nodded slowly. "I've pondered the reason so many times in my head, but I could never find it. We had no debts. I was never in trouble with another man, at least not enough to warrant an arrest." He smirked slightly, but he grew solemn again immediately. "I spent so many nights lying awake, wondering if it was a mistake, or if _I_ had made a mistake without realizing it."

"Well, the thing is," Mary said cautiously, "there really wasn't a genuine reason. You committed no crime yourself."

Matthew's breath stalled in his throat, though he had always known, deep down, that his imprisonment was wrongful. "Then … why was I locked up?"

He could see Mary hesitate to tell him. She knew the reason, but she couldn't bring herself to say what it was to him yet. She stared at the teapot sitting in front of her, wringing her skirt with her flour-speckled hands.

"Please, tell me Mary," Matthew entreated. "Whatever you know of this matter, you must tell me. I've been kept in the dark for too long."

Mary finally looked up. "I'm sorry, I – I don't like thinking about it. It's too horrible, even after all these years."

"But will you explain it to me?"

Mary leaned forward, and in a raspy whisper, as though afraid someone might hear her, she said, "It was Judge Talbot's doing."

Matthew was startled by this dreadful reveal, and yet at the same time it seemed that the answer had been known to him all along. "What?" he replied breathlessly.

"He was there, that day at the market, watching us," Mary described, her eyes wide as if seeing the sight before her. "With Beadle Gillingham. It was on Judge Talbot's orders that the police arrested you then. I knew he had something to do with it because, a few moments later, he came over to me and said, 'I'm so very sorry.'" Her voice cracked as she repeated the words had made her shudder upon hearing them. "I just _knew_ that he had done something, but I didn't know why. And when I went to him and tried to plead for your release, he said there was nothing he could do about it. By then, you were already at sea."

"But why did he do it?" Matthew asked, even though he dreaded to know.

Mary shook her head. "He never told me exactly why. He kept saying things like, 'you'll be better off without him,' and, 'I'll be here, if you ever need somebody to care for you.' But I promise, I never believed that you were gone forever, or that you had done something wrong."

"I know you wouldn't," Matthew assured her.

"After you were sent away, I tried my best to keep business going as usual. But it was so hard. I was dreadfully confused, and lost, and afraid for you. I had no clue where they sent you to, since nobody could divulge that sort of information even to me. People would see your barber shop closed and ask after you, and I'd barely be able to hold back my tears." Even now Mary looked close to weeping from remembering those painful times, but she cleared her throat and went on. "Still, things hadn't gone downhill just then. Even without customers in the barber shop I could still manage to pay the rent and keep the flat warm every night."

"So what happened that made business so tough for you?" Matthew asked.

"Judge Talbot," Mary said shortly. "It's a long story as to how business eventually went bad, but he's the catalyst. If it weren't for him there'd still be customers lined up outside right now for a pie."

Mary grabbed her teacup and swallowed most of the contents in one gulp. Matthew anticipated she'd need the gin as well and pushed the tumbler towards her.

"When I went to him first he didn't tell me why he had ordered your arrest and sentenced you to penal transportation. But only a few days afterwards, I began to pick up the real reason."

"And what was that reason?"

Mary paled significantly, her skin almost grey. "He was after me. He wanted me for himself."

Matthew's face too lost nearly all colour at hearing this revelation. It was shocking to hear, and yet it was not something he found to be improbable or unfounded. Judge Talbot was not a stranger to the Crawleys. He had come to the pie shop every so often, not so frequently that anybody would have suspected that he was trying to catch Mary's attention. He was courteous, charming, well-regarded, and no one suspected him of immorality – after all, he was a man of justice. But that reputation must have protected him, made him feel invincible while he lusted after Mary, his desires unbeknownst to anybody else.

How could Matthew not have understood it before? It was now clear to him that he had been arrested and exiled so that there would be no competition for Mary's heart. And it was all Judge Talbot's doing, the very same man who decided Matthew's sentence.

"So, with you gone," Mary continued haltingly, "he started coming to the pie shop more often. If it wasn't him, then it was Beadle Gillingham. And they didn't always come in for a pie or a pint of ale. But every night, there'd be a flower on the countertop."

There was no need to explain the Judge's intentions with the daily flower. "Did either of them believe you'd so quickly give in to such advances?" Matthew asked brusquely.

"I don't know what they believed," Mary replied, equally curt, "but I promise you I never gave Judge Talbot cause to pursue me. Each day that flower would go out to the bin with all the other rubbish. I'd tell both of them to leave the shop if they weren't going to buy a meal like a proper customer, but the next day one of them would be back to nudge and wheedle."

"How long did this go on for?"

Mary sighed. "A couple of weeks. I tried my best to keep the shop going like nothing was wrong, but seeing that flower reminded me of what I had lost, and what's more people were taking advantage of that. How could they not realize that I was heartbroken?"

"It was selfish of them," Matthew agreed, "selfish and cruel. You didn't deserve to be bothered, and they should have seen it."

"But they didn't," Mary said, "and they didn't stop. Even when I closed the shop early, just to have a bit of time to myself, I'd still see them through the window, watching me from across the street." She gestured to the wide window in the flat that looked out onto Fleet Street. "Eventually, I didn't even want to leave the flat. I was afraid I'd see them outside, following me. Beadle Gillingham wasn't so bad to deal with – I could tell he was working on orders – but the Judge, _he_ was the one that I never wanted to see again."

Matthew's own hands were trembling with rage. "That … that vulture!" he hissed. "First he sends me down south so he's rid of me, then he stalks you incessantly. If that is how he courts women …"

He and Mary shared a disgusted glance.

"At one point I sent him a letter. I wrote that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not romance me in the slightest, that his efforts to beguile me were going to waste. I hoped I was being firm enough and he'd understand that I did not want his attention, especially so soon after you had been arrested. It seemed to work, at least for a while."

"Did he continue to pursue you?" Matthew asked.

Mary's face became even whiter, as though she were being confronted by a ghost. "Worse," she whispered hoarsely. "What he did then was much worse."

* * *

_Close to midnight, Mary heard a series of knocks on the door._

_Curious, and slightly frightened, she set down her needlework and went to the door. Instead of drawing back the bolt, she lifted a corner of the curtain she had hung over the glass panes for privacy. To her utmost revulsion, she was met with the face of Beadle Gillingham._

" _Good evening, Mrs Cr—" he began to say._

_Mary let the curtain fall and obscure the face in the glass. "Go away," she spat._

" _Please open the door, Mrs Crawley," the Beadle begged, his voice muffled through the door. "I have an important message from the Judge."_

" _I don't care." Mary turned away from the door, but the reverberation of more frantic pounding halted her._

" _Mrs Crawley, the Judge ordered me to tell you – if you don't listen to me, he'll have to arrest you for disobeying a Judge's will."_

_Mary whirled back around to the door and threw aside the curtain. "He'll have me arrested, will he? Like he had my husband arrested?"_

" _Please, listen to me Mary," the Beadle said, ignoring the loathing on Mary's face at hearing him address her by her first name. "The Judge, he wants you to come straight to his house tonight. He wants to apologize for the distress he has caused you these past few weeks—"_

" _I'm sure he does," Mary replied bluntly._

" _He blames himself, ma'am, in all sincerity," Beadle Gillingham continued. "He wishes you to come to his house so that he may offer up his apology in person. Let the man repent, and then he will let you be."_

_Mary was in no mood to indulge the Judge's wishes or see him ever again, but she was tired of chasing him away. His promise of letting her be as long as she went to hear him in person was tempting. If he was out of her life for good, she could grieve in peace. She would never forgive him for personally sentencing her husband, but it he was contrite for pursuing her, that would be enough for her._

_She threw a shawl over her shoulders, then unlocked the door. "Alright then, I'll go with you. But I don't want him to keep me for longer than a half-hour."_

" _I assure you, he will be brief," the Beadle said, smiling. "The more succinct the apology, the more sincere."_

_Mary locked the flat door behind her, shuddering from the night air – or was it something else, she wondered vaguely._

_The gas lamps were still alight as she and Beadle Gillingham trotted down the near-empty streets towards the Judge's large house. Rain began to drizzle down, making the pavement smell damp and casting a mist gloom through the air. It was a peculiar feeling for Mary to be out of the pie shop or the flat, for she hardly left either except when she absolutely needed to do the shopping. She shivered as she hurried with the Beadle – her shawl was not enough for such a chilly night. She was in a daze, as it was late and she was tired from trying to manage the shop through her grief, which still felt fresh even several weeks after Matthew had been wrenched from her. Nonetheless, she had decided to listen to Judge Talbot. The sooner she heard his apology, the sooner she could make her way back home and forget this dreadful business with the Judge._

_She and the Beadle reached the Judge's home quickly; golden light was still shining from nearly every window. Mary's chest felt tight from hurrying through frigid night air, her legs aching slightly due to nearly slipping on the damp paving stones. The Beadle opened the door and hastily ushered her inside the foyer, pulling off her shawl for her._

" _Here we are," he said gleefully. With one hand pressing on the small of her back, he guided her towards the set of double doors that led to the main part of the house. "He's just through there."_

_When he opened the doors, Mary's knew she had made an awful mistake._

_The whole room was full of people in elaborate costumes and masks that concealed their faces. They were spinning about, dancing amidst candlelight and trays of thin wine glasses. Music from a small orchestra and raucous laughter echoed against every wall. There were so many people, all of them in masks, even the servants. Mary could not recognize anybody, could not see the Judge anywhere. She was all of a sudden frightened, and immediately turned around to collect her shawl and go home._

" _There must be a mistake," she started to say, but her voice was too weak to be heard above the rest of the noise._

_The Beadle pushed Mary through the double doors, into the heart of the ball. "Go and find him," he said. Then he was swallowed up by a group of dancers whirling around them, separating Mary from an escape to the door._

_She remembered Judge Talbot's promise, that he'd allow her to grieve along as long as she heard his formal apology. But no matter how hard she looked, how stumbled and wandered around the room, looking for any figure that resembled him, she could not find him. She asked a few people, but they never gave her a straight answer, or looked at her queerly. One look at her unmasked face and everyday dress and they knew she was not part of their crowd. The head of the room, the noise and the colourful gowns swirling about befuddled her mind, making everything in front of her seem hazy._

The Judge wants to repent to me _, she thought dully,_ surely he must be searching for me too.

_Inexplicably, there was a tall, thin glass of wine in her hand, but she couldn't remember if she had picked it up herself or if someone had thrust it into her hand. However it came to be in her possession, she took a sip of the wine, then another. Quickly she downed the whole glass, and a few minutes later there was a second in her hand. She continued to wander about, hoping not to spill her drink or trip over someone's trailing gown. The room was becoming a blur, her own head smarting and her mind growing foggy._

Sit, _she said to herself. Even the voice in her head slurred_. Must sit down.

_As soon as Mary found an unoccupied place to rest, a red velvet couch, she practically collapsed on it. She clutched her half-empty wine glass, slouched against the pillows, one hand rubbing her head. She felt ill inside, out of breath and incredibly dizzy. She wanted to fall asleep, let the night pass like a bad dream, but every time she felt her eyelids flutter she took another swig of intoxicating wine._ Oh, where is Henry Talbot? _she lamented._

_He was there, of course, but he was not as contrite as Mary had been informed._

_The wine glass slipped from Mary's limp fingers as her eyes flickered open and she realized someone was coming towards her. A man, slipping off his mask, she discerned. Was it Judge Talbot, she wondered hopefully?_

_It_ was _him._

_She tried to sit up, but she was so tired and the wine had diminished what was left of her energy. She attempted to say his name, but all that came out was a garble of unintelligible sounds. Looking up at him, she felt so utterly pathetic slumped on his couch. But that was just how he wanted her._

" _Hello, my dear Mary," he said above the din._

_He threw himself on top of her._

_All Mary could hear was the laughter of the ball guests, so harsh and thunderous as if each one of them was standing beside her. She didn't dare open her eyes. She could hardly make sense of what was going on. But the voice in her head was shouting over and over,_ no, no, let it stop, no!

_She didn't even realize that she was screaming herself. She kept screaming until the world went black._

* * *

"No!"

Matthew's eyes were wide with horror and anger. He had shot up from his chair quicker than lightning could strike, and he was shaking with rage, the kind that had never possessed him until this moment. Mary was staring up at him, equally distressed, but she had remained in her seat and had been remarkably calm as she was telling her story, even though her expression had been pained.

"No," Matthew repeated, more softly. His eyes gleamed with tears as he looked at Mary. "Would no one have pity on you?"

Her own eyes welling with tears, Mary shook her head. "I blacked out," she went on dolefully, "and when I came to I was back in the flight. At first I thought I had dreamt it all. But then I found the flat door unlocked … and I was hurting in so many places."

Matthew knelt beside Mary's chair, taking her hand and gripping it tight. "My poor darling," he murmured against her knuckles.

"He kept part of his promise, though," Mary said, as though that would make matters better. "He never visited me again. And at first I thought that he was out of my life after that. He'd had his way with me, and so he didn't want me anymore. But I was mistaken."

Having already heard the worst, Matthew did not know if he could bear to hear of more wrongdoing done to his wife. "What more could he inflict upon you?" he choked out.

"The pie shop," Mary said shortly, and Matthew understood instantly. "He was responsible for its ruin?" he guessed.

"I don't know how exactly he did it," Mary admitted, "but the customers were less and less each day. Perhaps he was spreading rumours, but I sure there was more, because eventually it started to get harder to procure the ingredients for the pies. A lot of businesses are going through hard times now, but long before that I was struggling just to have a dozen customers come into the shop. And everything went downhill after that. I couldn't fight it."

"So," Matthew said through his teeth, "it was not enough that he had to violate you. He had to destroy your business as well."

In contrast to her husband's resentment, Mary smiled hopefully. "But you're here again. We might be able to save the pie shop, you could reopen the barber shop. We can go on just like we used to."

"Mary, after what Judge Talbot has done to us, you know that can never be. Our lives won't be the same as they were before he meddled with them. He cannot be allowed to go unpunished for his crimes."

"But he has, Matthew; that's the way the world is. There are people who get away with the crimes they commit and innocent men suffer for it," Mary sighed.

"No," Matthew said firmly. "What he did to you – what he's done to both of us – I don't care if I have to get my hands dirty, but he _will_ pay."

As Mary had gone on with her tale at what happened that night at the masquerade ball, he grew more fearful that it would come to the conclusion that it did. His hatred of Talbot had burgeoned within seconds; he absolutely detested the monster for forcing him apart from Mary, for violating her, for ruining to her livelihood. The damage he had done was irreparable, even if somehow the business one day got back on its feet. He had stolen precious time away from both of them, time that should have been spent together, time that should have been spent building a family. It sickened and angered Matthew to know that Talbot was sitting in his warm, comfortable, unashamed at the misery he had wrought upon him and Mary.

"If I have to do this alone, then I will," he decided, "but I will make sure we have our revenge."

_That's a rather fearsome word,_ Mary mused. With her hand she tilted Matthew's chin up so he was looking at her. "You won't do it on your own. I'll help you, however I can." She ran her fingers through his straggly blonde hair, which was in sore need of a good washing. "But let's not think about that anymore tonight."

She stood up and went to the stove, and Matthew followed her.

"You need a proper meal – you probably haven't had one in ages – and rest in a bed," Mary declared. "Don't worry, I've got better than suet slop up here for us."

She started fumbling through the cupboards, but Matthew turned her head around gently, and she allowed him a tender kiss. Already she felt so much happier, just with him home again. Even if their lives were irrevocably altered because of the Judge, at least they were together again, and while they were together things would not be so desperate. With each other, they'd find a way.

"I'm just so glad that you're home," she murmured.

"I am too, my darling," Matthew responded.

For the first time in years, the bed in the flat sagged under the weight of two people, and Mary and Matthew finally shared in each other's warmth as they slept.


	4. The Empty Shaving Parlour

Matthew opened his eyes to the grey morning light shining in from the window, his arm still wrapped around Mary, sleeping soundly against his chest. It felt like a dream, this tranquil moment, but if he had just woken up then it had to be real.

As wonderful as it was to be back home, his wife in his arms again, he knew things could never be the same as they were before Judge Talbot decided to leave their lives in ruins. They were changed, both of them, the gaiety of their past life snuffed out. They had suffered apart from each other, Matthew in a prison cell and Mary in her empty shop. No one could possibly emerge from that state of sorrowful destitution and be unchanged.

In both of their hearts, there was a pervasive darkness settling in. Matthew himself could feel it in him, the rage building up inside of him as Mary told him what Talbot had done to her. It had been slowly growing while he was imprisoned, but now that he knew the reason behind his incarceration, it had swelled like an uncontrollable fire. He wanted to tear Talbot limb from limb just for hurting Mary – he didn't care so much about the wrong done to him, and if Talbot hadn't done anything to Mary Matthew would have considered forgetting the matter. But Talbot had gone too far, and for that Matthew could never forget it, much less forgive.

There was an equal amount of anger boiling inside Mary, but like many emotions she concealed it, never thinking to act upon it. What could she do anyway in her position? She could hardly barge into Judge Talbot's house and bash his head in with a rolling pin.

It was a dangerous feeling they shared, but at least they were not bearing it alone.

Mary stirred, her eyes flickering open. Matthew smiled down at her, murmuring, "Hello, my darling."

Mary sighed contently, her fingers tracing over Matthew's skin as if making sure he was real. "That was the first night that you've actually been here, sleeping next to me, and not just in a dream."

Matthew held her tighter in his one-armed embrace. "I was thinking the same."

Lifting her head to peer at Matthew's face better, Mary brushed his dirty blonde hair off his forehead. "You're going to need a proper washing. I doubt you've had one in a while."

"I reckon I'm a sight better than when I was actually imprisoned," Matthew quipped. "Had you seen me then, you might not have recognized your own husband underneath all the grime. Sweating by day, chilled to the bone at night, and hardly a drop of rain. But being at sea washed most of it away."

"Even so, I'm bringing out the washtub," Mary declared. "And when we've done that, and had have breakfast, there's something else we have to see to. There was something I forget to tell you last night, or something I maybe should've shown you," Mary said.

"What is it?" Matthew asked.

"Once you're cleaned up and fed, then you'll see."

Matthew allowed himself to be scrubbed raw over every inch of his body until even the skin underneath his fingernails was clean. He emerged from the washtub cleaner than he had been in years, and he looked much as he had before he had been sent away. Yet there were some aspects of his appearance that no amount of sponging could revert. His skin was noticeably paler, dark shadows decorating the skin below his eyes. His blonde hair had lost some of its colour, and no matter how much it was brushed it still looked somewhat dishevelled. Irregular meals had nearly starved him, and seeing him naked made his gaunt figure all the more evident.

Matthew would not say so to Mary, but in every way his appearance was changed, hers was as well. She too looked paler than before (which hardly seemed possible to Matthew), her cheekbones more angular and her dark hair matted in some places. The years had not been kind to either of them.

"I'm surprised you haven't grown a full beard," Mary remarked as she combed through Matthew's hair, "or amassed a longer mane of hair."

"The ship's crew cleaned me up well," Matthew replied. "A bit of a rough shave though." He pointed to a scab on his jawline.

"You'd have done a better job of it yourself," Mary smirked.

After she and Matthew filled themselves with a warm breakfast, Mary reached into one of the cupboards and drew out a long tarnished key. Matthew recognized it instantly, although he had not seen it for many years. He gaped. "That's not—?"

Mary nodded. "Of course it is. Do you think I would have thrown it away, even when you were gone?"

She opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden landing that lead to the shaving parlour next door. Matthew followed her outside, standing next to her as she forced the key into the lock and wriggled it about. He glanced through the glass panes in the door. Just he had seen the previous evening, the room was almost bare, and he imagined it hadn't been entered in a long while.

"Why did you never rent it out?" Matthew inquired. "Times being tough, it could've brought in a little something."

"I considered it," Mary told him, "but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I felt like you were still in there, that it was still your shop. Maybe it was just me hoping you'd still come back."

The key turned, the lock grating from disuse. Mary pushed the door open and stepped inside, the wooden floorboards creaking underneath her shoes. Matthew hung back in the doorway, eyes scanning across the room.

If a room could be deceased, this was what he imagined to be an accurate depiction. Every inch of the floor was covered in fine white dust. The colour of the wallpaper had faded and there were areas where the brick exterior was exposed. What little furniture was still inside was pushed against one wall and covered with a sheet.

Including, Matthew saw, a short cradle. Never used by them, but kept in hopes that one day they would be blessed with a child.

"Come over here." Mary knelt at a spot below the large window, the only source of light in the otherwise shadowy room. She started to pry up some of the floorboards with her bare hands, Matthew watching with curiosity.

Mary reached down into the hole beneath the floorboards and pulled out something wrapped in a cloth. She set the item down as she unfolded the cloth, revealing a polished wooden box.

"I hid them right after you were taken away. I thought they'd seize the shops and the flat," Mary explained. "Even after I realized they weren't forcing me out I kept them hidden. That was me thinking you'd be back one day, that you'd need them again."

She held the box out for Matthew to take; his hands trembled as he did so. His fingers brushed along the edge of the wood, hovering over the clasp as if afraid to open it.

"When times got hard I wondered if I should sell them," Mary continued. "I could've gotten five, ten quid for them any day. But I felt like if I did, I'd be selling part of you."

"Did you?" Matthew murmured absently, his eyes fixed on the wooden box.

His fingers shakily unclasped the box, the hinges creaking as he lifted the lid. A perfect set of seven straight razors were nestled neatly inside, the chased silver handles untarnished even after so many years. A soft gasp escaped his lips as his hands ran across the length of one of them.

"Each one of them, still here." He glanced up at Mary. "You didn't sell a single one."

"I said so, didn't I?" Mary said.

Matthew removed one of the straight razors from the case and held it up to the morning light shining in through the window. The metal was icy cold in his hand, but with his touch it began to warm. The light glistened in the silver handle, and when Matthew unfolded the blade his face reflected in it, as though it had been polished yesterday. The edge of the blade was dull, but a few swipes on a leather strop would change that. At it's sharpest, this razor's blade could cut through flesh so easily the pain wouldn't be felt immediately.

"You can open up the shaving parlour again," Mary said, coming to kneel behind him. Her face reflected in the blade beside his. "You don't need meat to shave a face, do you? We could get the furniture set up, clean the place up again. I reckon a few customers a day will be enough to support both of us … only just."

Matthew rotated the razor around in his hand, the light bouncing off the mirror-like metal and flickering on the walls. He felt Mary's hand on his shoulder, and he reached around with his other to cover hers. "Yes … I could reopen the parlour."

He turned around to her, her face almost touching his. "It won't be the same as before though. Will people remember me, trust me? I've disappeared and reappeared, how would I ever explain that?"

Mary shrugged. "Would you need to? Are there people out there who would remember you and be suspicious?"

"Judge Talbot," Matthew answered, "and the Beadle most likely."

"Yes, those two would probably recognize you," Mary assented, "but it wouldn't be for long, if things go well."

Matthew stared in shock into his wife's eyes at hearing her words. She stared back in absolute seriousness.

"Do you mean," Matthew whispered slowly, "we'd have our revenge against the bastard?"

Mary nodded, smiling.

"We could do nothing by ourselves, but now that we're together, we can do something to bring him to justice. Something appropriate for locking you out of sight for so long."

"And for hurting you so dreadfully," Matthew added. "It's your revenge as much as mine."

He stood up from the dusty floor and turned to face Mary, still holding the razor in his hand. "I've come back to London, back home, to find you waiting for me after all these years. I won't allow Talbot to go unpunished for any longer. You deserve that."

He gripped the razor still as Mary pulled him into a close embrace. Like the razor, she had been cold to the touch before, but in his arms she seemed to be regaining her warmth.

"You're home, and we're together," she said. Tilting her head up to look at Matthew, her fingers grazed the razor in his hand. "And we'll have our vengeance in time."

"We will," Matthew swore with her.

Slowly he lifted his arm high above their heads, the light glinting off the razor once more. "At last," he said euphorically, "we are complete again."


	5. Barrow's Magical Elixir / The Contest

For the next few days, Matthew and Mary worked to rid the empty shaving parlour of all its filth and dust, cleaning what little furniture remained, concealing the exposed bricks in the wall as best as they could. And while they worked, Matthew’s mind was fixated on thoughts of revenge. 

Being in the old shaving parlour reminded him of carefree days formerly spent there: sunlight streaming in through the window as clients sat in the large chair, foam lathered across their jaw, listening to the muted hum of chatter downstairs in the pie shop as he steadily and skillfully performed his craft. And even though the wooden floorboards separated them, he always knew Mary was safe, happily working as he did. Those were days he missed, when the world was rosy, and he feared he would not live through another one like them. 

Because as long as Talbot lived, as long as justice was not delivered, the gloom over his life, and Mary’s, would remain. Until that vile, selfish monster got what he deserved, he and Mary could never live as they had once lived.

So he pondered and planned revenge. Over and over in his mind he envisioned how he could do it. So many ways, so many methods, but he’d only be able to execute one, and just one chance to kill did not seem sufficient punishment for Talbot. If only he could die and resurrect only to be cut down again, cycle between life and death until Matthew was satisfied. 

But actually getting the opportunity for revenge, coaxing Talbot close enough to him to carry out justice, would be the real task. 

When he finally reopened his shop, business would be slow initially, and garnering those well-renowned clients would take time – perhaps too much time. He had to make himself known somehow as the best barber in London, make his skill obvious so that someone like Judge Talbot, requiring only the finest, would consider paying him a visit. 

Then there was, of course, the problematic matter of him being recognized. The years had certainly changed him, and even Mary admitted that he didn’t look quite like he did before his incarceration. But Talbot was no dunce, and neither was Beadle Gillingham. Would they suspect something afoul if the shaving parlor above Mary’s pie shop reopened, owned by a man who so strongly resembled her husband? That was the one complication that made Matthew hesitate in his plotting revenge. 

“You could take a different name,” Mary suggested when Matthew brought up this conundrum while cleaning the parlour. “Say you were new in town, saw the barber’s pole next to the empty shop and decided to open up your business there.”

“Mary, the issue is that people won’t just recognize my name, they may recognize my face,” Matthew said. “If anyone realized it was me, word might reach Gillingham or Talbot, and I have little faith they’d simply leave me be.”

Mary frowned. “Well, how many times did either of them see your face? You never gave them a shave, and it was me they ogled at. Besides, anyone who might know you from before may not know it’s you. If I didn’t know you so well, I’d have hardly known it was you who entered me shop. The years haven’t been as kind as they should’ve been.”

Matthew smiled faintly. “I could always count on you to be frank.”

“Well, I doubt they’ve been any more forgiving for me,” Mary shrugged. 

“But you’re no less beautiful in my eyes,” Matthew replied. 

Mary couldn’t help but smile at her husband’s obvious attempt to reassure her of her beauty. “So would you consider working under a different name?”

“I don’t know,” Matthew conceded. “If it will ensure Talbot gets close to me, then so be it. But what name I should take is hard to decide.”

Possible aliases were still circulating in his brain when they went downstairs to the pie shop. “Have you heard from either of your sisters lately?” he asked her.

Mary shook her head. “I wrote to both of them not long after … after that night. But neither of them replied. Sybil was supposed to be studying at the hospital, and Edith … well, God knows what she was up to.”

“What do you think happened to them?” Matthew asked.

With a shrug, Mary answered, “I couldn’t say. I know we weren’t the best of friends, but it’s still odd that they wouldn’t at the very least write to me and tell me they were moving someplace, or that something had happened.”

It was certainly curious, but Mary wouldn’t let herself worry about it too much. She and Matthew had bigger fish to fry, and wherever her sisters were, she was certain they could take care of themselves.

Unless, of course, Judge Talbot had something to do with that as well. 

* * *

The plan of revenge did not begin to unfold until the day Mary announced the two of them were going to take an outing to St Dunstan’s marketplace. Matthew suspected this had nothing to do with shopping, and he was correct – there was someone there, Mary explained, who needed to be taken care of before Matthew reopened his establishment.

“He’s here every Wednesday?” Matthew asked Mary.

Mary nodded. “Appears exactly at noon, like clockwork. Says he’s travelled all over the world, ‘perfecting his craft’ and such. He’s all the rage with the nobs. Everyone says he’s the best barber in London.”

“Not anymore,” Matthew quipped. Mary smirked.

They rounded a corner into the heart of the marketplace. All around there was the steady mercantile buzz of the cries of costermongers and merchants. The stench of produce, raw meat, and too many unwashed bodies filled the air. There were so many people clustered together, hawkers eagerly vending their wares and shoppers bustling around. This was the liveliest place Matthew had been to for years. It was almost overwhelming, and he made sure to keep Mary in his sights. 

Mary guided him to one corner of the square, where stood a platform in front of some sort of caravan. Painted on the hanging banners were words like “Thomas Barrow, Master Barber” or “Haircutter to the Sultans of Turkey.” It was a rather gaudy and ostentatious display, but plenty of shoppers were looking at the empty platform with curiosity, wondering if there was to be some sort of show. It was still several minutes before twelve, so Mary and Matthew stood to wait in front of the platform.

“Is he really as popular as you say?” Matthew asked Mary, eyeing the brightly-coloured banners. 

Mary shrugged. “People will eat up anything. Someone says he’s the best barber, they believe him.”

“Do you believe he’s as good as he says?”

Mary sighed. “I’ve seen him do shaves. He’s not bad, but I doubt he’s actually been to Turkey, let alone given a shave to a sultan. They’re not the sort to favor smooth chins.”

“So he’s a narcissistic liar,” Matthew said. “Still, if we’re lucky, he won’t have much to brag about by the day’s end.”

“Matthew, do you really think you can denounce him so quickly?” Mary questioned. “He’s got a reputation, and no one knows who you are or if your skill outranks his.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Matthew decided.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure casually wandering through the crowd, wooden walking stick clapping against the cobblestones. Not the Judge, but Beadle Gillingham, looking almost exactly as well as he had been at the time of Matthew’s arrest. He was nearby, and strolling close to the platform. The rim of his short silk hat barely concealed his beady eyes as they scoured the crowd and the food stalls. 

Matthew watched, transfixed on those eyes, waiting for them to settle on him and Mary. His hand brushed the silver razor tucked into its leather sheath on his belt. Gillingham was so close, and with the crowd milling about he wouldn’t see him coming. It would be so quick, and easy, one less enemy to deal with …

But he took only one step before he felt Mary pulling his arm, keeping him close to her. “Don’t,” she hissed. “He might recognize you.”

Reluctantly, Matthew’s hand fell away from the straight razor, and he stood still next to his wife. But he continued to watch Beadle Gillingham, who had stopped to chat with a young woman. “I  _ will _ do what I vowed to,” he reminded Mary.

“Yes, but now’s not the time,” she said. 

As if on cue, the bells at the nearby church began to chime noon. A young man emerged from behind the curtains separating the platform and the caravan with a large tin drum. He started banging it in time to the tolling bells, and like a hive of bees to fresh flowers, a large crowd gathered around the platform, Mary and Matthew caught in the middle of it. The Beadle too looked on, just as intrigued as the rest of the gullible shoppers.

“I certainly hope  _ that’s _ not the great Thomas Barrow,” Matthew remarked. The young man couldn’t have been older than Mary, but he was rather thin and peaky. His clothes were probably made for a less destitute working-class man, but they weren’t looking so fine now. Scraggly brown hair poked out from underneath his cap.

“I believe that’s his assistant,” Mary said. “Poor sir could do with a few meat pies,” she added absently.

By the time the man had stopped pounding his tin drum, a substantial crowd had gathered around the stage. Matthew could see Beadle Gillingham standing at the back of the throng, his eyes fixed on the man on the stage as if he recognized him. Matthew too wondered if he had seen the man before, but he couldn’t place where. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?” hollered the young man. Everyone in the crowd, and even some of the shoppers still hesitating by the stalls, looked up at him with bated breath and wide eyes. 

“I’m here to present to you an amazing miracle, a marvelous rare elixir, the effects of which will amaze you,” the man energetically called out, “concocted by London’s best barber, Mr Barrow!”

The crowd murmured enthusiastically, already liking what they were hearing. Matthew had to admit the man spoke well, though his accent sounded somewhat high-class, more like he was an actor dressed up as a poor barber’s assistant. 

Spurred on by the crowd’s interest, the man kept on excitedly. “Listen here – hardly a month ago, I myself was struck with a dreadful condition, one that no doctor in London could remedy. I found myself awakened one morning to discover every hair on my head was gone!”

Some members of the crowd tutted and shook their heads in pity. 

“Oh, it was as dreadful as you can imagine. Even my own family was so embarrassed at the sight of me! I nearly died of the shame, me wandering the streets without a crop of hair to keep my head warm,” the man said, shivering for good effect. 

“He ought to go on a real stage,” Mary muttered sardonically. 

“But a gentleman came to my aid, the illustrious barber Barrow,” the man declared. He rushed suddenly to one of the wooden boxes on the stage and pried open the top. “See here – the liquid he gave me to cure my terrible disease!”

And he pulled out a small glass bottle full of clear yellow liquid, with the label ‘Barrow’s Magical Elixir’ on it.

“Look at it,” the man said gleefully, “almost as precious as gold, and far more useful. I rubbed it in daily as he told me, and now look at me!”

Dramatically, he doffed his cap, and a full head of smooth brown hair cascaded all the way down to his shoulders. Some in the crowd gasped, some men laughed at the amusing sight, and a few more applauded the beaming man. Mary and Matthew stared, dumbfounded that the crowd had bought such a theatrical story. 

Mary peered at the man shaking his long locks out. “That’s not real, is it?”

“The hair or the elixir?” Matthew prompted. “Both, I’d think.”

The man on the stage held up the bottle in his hand. “Barrow’s Magical Elixir is what did the trick, ladies and gentlemen. Did it in a tick, like a proper potion ought to do.”

He bent down to a gentleman near the front of the gathering, holding out the elixir bottle. “Only costs a penny, sir, to cure that bare head of yours. What do you say?”

The gentleman, whose bald head was obvious even with his top hat on, was one of the few who was still unconvinced. “I don’t know—”

The man on the stage, without asking, took the gentleman’s hat off and poured a drop from the bottle onto the hairless flesh. “It’ll stimulate the growth, sir,” he explained as he rubbed the liquid around, “so fast that you’ll need to come see Mr Barrow for a cut. Only a penny, guaranteed.”

The gentleman rubbed his own head as if already feeling the hairs grow. “Only a penny, you say? Might as well … ”

The crowd drew even further towards the stage as the gentleman tossed up a penny and Mr Barrow’s assistant started pulling out more bottles of the ‘magical elixir.’ They were clammering and murmuring to each other about the supposed effects of the liquid in the bottles.

“Wotcher think?”

“Go ahead and try it, wot the hell!”

“Penny buys a bottle, does it?”

The man was all too eager to feed the crowd’s interest. “Who’d like a sample? You, sir? A cleansing smell it has as well!”

Bottles started to be passed out around the crowd, many uncorking them and taking tentative sniffs or dabbing a finger into the liquid. Already some were sold on the idea of a hair-growing elixir and held their coins out to the man on the stage.

“Let me have a bottle!”

“Make that two!”

Matthew glanced around in disbelief. It was almost embarrassing to be caught up in this mob, amongst the sort of people who were willing to believe anything that reached their ears.

He heard a gasp from Mary. “What is it?” he asked urgently.

“I know that man up there,” she said, staring at the young assistant happily passing around glass bottles and snatching pennies from customer’s hands.

“Who is it?”

“Evelyn Napier. I knew him before we were married. You met him only once,” Mary explained. “What’s he done to reduce himself to  _ this _ ?”

“That doesn’t matter. At this rate, everyone in London will soon believe Barrow is a mastermind.” Matthew figured if the Beadle believed Barrow had a bit of worth or skill, then he’d refer Judge Talbot to him, and his opportunity for revenge would be gone.

Mary’s loud voice cut through the marketplace. “Pardon me, sir, what  _ is _ that awful smell? Are we near an open trench?” She winked at Matthew.

Her clever observation wasn’t without truth. The elixir bottles were emitting a very unpleasant stench that was spreading through the crowd. A few people began to notice it as well, wrinkling their noses and sniffing the bottles even more to see if the smell was coming from there. Matthew smirked – Mary was onto something. 

Evelyn Napier, however, wasn’t fazed by Mary’s outburst; plenty of people were still pushing forward to buy the bottles. He called out even louder, “Buy ‘Barrow’s Magical Elixir,’ and your slick head can soon sprout curls. Even you old men can have your pick of the girls then. You’d like a bottle, ma’am—?”

Matthew snatched up a bottle from the hand of another gentleman. “What is this?” he said, peering at the yellow liquid inside the bottle. He had absolutely no doubt of what the ‘elixir’ really was. “Doesn’t look like any miracle-worker to me?” Some of the shoppers around him laughed.

He uncorked it, and his suspicions were confirmed. “This smells rather like … piss.”

Mary grabbed the bottle and took a whiff; she regretted it immediately as her face contorted. “Whew! That’s well nasty, isn’t it!”

The shoppers around Mary and Matthew, some with bottles in their hands, looked around curiously – was this whole thing really a disgusting sham? 

“I wouldn’t touch this stuff with my bare hands in a hundred years,” Mary said loudly, shoving the bottle back into Matthew’s hand. “Smells and looks like piss.”

Now the shoppers were starting to see through the fraudulent elixir. 

“Wotcher think?”

“Smells bloody awful, i’n’ it?”

“I reckon it  _ is _ piss!”

The change in the crowd’s attitude towards Barrow’s Magical Elixir was palpable. More started to sniff the bottles, recognizing the stench of old urine, and they started shouting at a flustered Evelyn Napier.

“Is it really—? Give us back our money?”

“Glad I didn't buy one.”

“If you think that piss can fool—!”

Evelyn was trying to wave away the bottles being shaken at him. “Never mind those people, mister. Just … just try a bit … free sample?”

The crowd, however, would not be swayed again. They were shouting for their money back, making a ruckus about the piss in their hands and on their heads.

“Give ‘em back their money, I say!”

“We don’t want no piss, boy!”

“Give me back my money!”

Mary and Matthew smiled at each other. Pirelli’s name was slowly being soiled. “Give them back their money!” Mary shouted along with the crowd. “Where is this Barrow?”

More followed her example. “Where is Mr Barrow? Get him out here!”

Desperately, Evelyn tried to sell just one more bottle. “Just buy one bottle of Barrow’s. The ladies just love it—!”

“Flies do too!” Mary shouted, and the crowed erupted in raucous laughter.

Practically everyone was shouting for Evelyn to hand them their money back or to get Barrow out into the open. The shoppers by the stalls or passing through the market looked on with amusement and curiosity at the scene. It felt as though at any moment the crowd would turn violent.

But everyone was silenced immediately when the curtain behind Evelyn was thrown aside, and out stepped the man who could only be Thomas Barrow.

“That’s him,” Mary whispered to Matthew. 

Matthew was only a little put off by the flamboyantly-dressed barber standing on the stage. He looked closer to a dandy than a hairdresser, with his black hair slicked over his head and his silk jacket. He had in one hand an ornate but dull razor. 

“Evelyn,” he snapped, “what the bloody hell is going on out here?”

Evelyn, who was quivering by the curtain and still holding two bottles, pointed to the crowd. “Some people … trying to start a row, I reckon.”

Thomas Barrow straightened, shoving the razor into his pocket and scanning the stunned crowd. “Good afternoon to you, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Thomas Barrow,” he said, his voice ringing over the crowd. “Some of you know me as the most famed barber in London, or you may have recently my new product up for sale.” He tapped one of the crates containing elixir bottles with his boot. “Which brings me to why I’ve come out here before I’ve properly prepared for today.”

He strutted across the stage, peering at the crowd. “I want to know who in this assembly has the nerve to say that my elixir is  _ piss _ !” he spat. “Who started this?”

Silence hung about for several heartbeats. Now no one seemed ready to slander the man, throw the bottle of piss in his face and call him out for being a fraud. But Matthew had no doubt that, by the end of the day, what credibility Barrow had would vanish. His fingers brushed against his silver razor at his belt. 

He heard Mary draw in a breath. “I did,” she stated proudly, and everyone in the crowd turned to look at her. Matthew imagined Beadle Gillingham perking his ears up at the sound of Mary’s voice. 

Mary held up the bottle in her hand. “I’ve opened this bottle of Barrow’s Magical Elixir, and I can swear that there is nothing but piss inside of it.”

Thomas’s face hardened at the mention of piss. Mary smirked, waving the bottle around for the crowd to see. “Throwing your money down the sewer would be a wiser choice.”

There were a few nervous laughs. Cautiously, Matthew looked behind him to where Beadle Gillingham was standing, but the expression on his face betrayed more amusement at the scene than recognition. 

Thomas sighed, shaking his head as if Mary was being perfectly ridiculous. “Ladies and gentlemen, pay no attention to that lady. Who's to be the first for an expert shave?”

Mary gave Matthew a small nudge – this was his chance. 

“And furthermore,” she broke in again, “your claim to being the best barber in London is no longer true. I have with me a man who deserves that claim more than you.”

Thomas looked like someone had waved an open bottle of magical elixir under his nose. “This is ridiculous. Who is this person you speak of?”

Matthew felt Mary give him another nudge, this time signalling him to step forth towards the stage. As he moved forward, the crowd parted and Thomas’s eyes rested on him. “I am. I may have serviced no sultans or such, yet I guarantee that I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity than any street swindler.”

Thomas chuckled nervously. “Is that a challenge?”

To answer, Matthew pulled the razor from his sheath and unfolded it, raising his arm high so that even those in the back of the crowd could see. “Do you see this razor? I lay it against five pounds your skill is no match for mine.”

Thomas bent down to look at the fine silver razor, and even Evelyn crept forward to take a glance too. “That is a fine razor,” Matthew heard Evelyn whisper to Thomas.

“Well then?” Matthew said. “Do you accept my challenge, or will you reveal yourself as a sham?”

“I accept,” Thomas answered, then in a louder voice, “and everyone here shall see how foolish you are to slander me.”

Matthew turned back to glimpse Mary’s encouraging nod. He was usually unpretentious of his skill, but if Thomas Barrow’s reliance on false products were any indication, this contest would not be a challenge for him.

“Who’d like a free shave today?” he said to the crowd.

A couple men pushed forward towards the stage, and two workers with stubble on their cheeks made it up. As they came up, Thomas started giving orders to Evelyn to get chairs, fetch the basins and towels and razors. It was rather odd, Matthew thought, to see someone ordering around a grown man as if he were a child.

Mary removed his overcoat for him just before he climbed onto the stage. “You’ll be splendid,” she said. “I’d wish you luck, but I know you don’t need it.”

“And I’d give you a kiss, but I think that should wait for when we’re not being watched,” Matthew replied. 

Evelyn had supplied him with everything he needed save for the razor, but he did notice that Thomas had the more refined set of tools. Even so, some unpolished tools wouldn’t put him at a disadvantage. His subject was already sitting down, and as he took a towel and tucked it around the man’s neck, he asked Thomas, “Who will oversee the contest?”

Thomas looked out over the gathering. “Will Beadle Gillingham be the judge?”

Matthew tried not to let his alarm show in his face.  _ If he recognizes me or Mary, it’s over _ . It had been many years since the Beadle had seen either him or Mary, but there was still no telling how he’d react upon recognizing either of them. Mary’s surprise was evident as well, 

The Beadle simpered. “I’d be pleased, of course, to oblige my friends and neighbors,” he drawled as he came toward the stage. 

Mary ducked her head and backed away as Gillingham ascended the stairs to the platform, but he made no indication that he saw her face. And neither, even when he looked straight at Matthew’s face, did he show any sign of recognition. 

“Are Mr Barrow and … I’m sorry, I don’t believe you stated your name,” Gillingham said to Matthew. 

Could it actually be that Gillingham did not recognize him? 

“Grantham,” Matthew answered, “Mr Matthew Grantham of Fleet Street.”

Not even a flicker of suspicion passed through Gillingham’s face. Just how daft was the man really, not to even imagine that this could be the same man he conspired with Judge Talbot to have exiled? From the corner of his eye he saw Mary sigh with relief, then offer another smile of encouragement. It was such immense luck, practically a miracle, that he was not going to be discovered so soon.

“Right then. Are Mr Barrow and Mr Grantham both ready?” Gillingham asked.

“Ready,” Thomas answered with a smirk of confidence.

“Ready,” Matthew replied as well.

The Beadle pulled out a tin whistle underneath his shirt. “The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner.” He blew the whistle, the harsh trill echoing across the square.

Both men set to work immediately, every pair of eyes in the crowd fixed on them. It was quite strange to see two barbers work in different ways: Thomas Barrow had his assistant, Evelyn, while Matthew had only his own two hands to help him. Evelyn held Thomas’s leather strop taught as Thomas swiped his razor blade quickly across it, more often than not nicking his assistant’s knuckles in the process. Meanwhile, Matthew was stropping his own silver razor in a more careful manner. 

Mary was one of the few in the crowd who was not anxious about the outcome of the contest. She knew how Matthew worked, remembered how he’d take his time for the sake of being careful and focused on his skill rather than speed. It brought her back to old times, occasionally watching him at work with a customer when she wasn’t needed down in her pie shop. 

Thomas was already furiously whipping up lather, accidentally splattering it over his hands, while Matthew continued stropping his razor. He kept glancing at Matthew’s progress as if already wary of losing the contest, but while he was lathering up his subject’s face he tried to keep his disconcertion away. 

“How long has it been, Mr Grantham, since you shaved a face?” he asked slyly. 

Matthew was unfazed as he answered, “Some time, I admit.” He had only now just released his leather strop and was starting to mix up the lather. 

Thomas chuckled. “Then perhaps you should look here, and observe the work of a man who has had the privilege to shave the Turkish sultan.”

Matthew heard a snort in the crowd, fairly certain that it was Mary. He kept his eyes away from Thomas so as to not give him any satisfaction, keeping his steady pace. Thomas, however, was not yet ready to give up his false boasting.

“And I was recently called by the ambassador of Turkey here in London to pull a rotten tooth out of his son’s gum,” he went on. “Barely noticed me pull it out.”

Still, Matthew showed no sign of being ready yet to shave his man. Thomas seemed to decide he could slow his hasty pace down now as he readied his razor. “Ladies and gentlemen, shaving is an art of grace and skill,” he said as he opened his razor with a flourish and brought it close to his subject’s cheek. “It is not a trade for just any man, for it requires a light hand and a careful eye. One little slip can nick the chin or rip the lip for good.”

He believed he had the crowd’s attention as he began, with slow, short strokes, scraped the razor across the man’s face, Evelyn holding out the cloth to clean the razor after every swipe. But it was Matthew’s patience that drew the crowd’s curiosity. What sort of trick did this new barber have up his sleeve?

“I’ve studied my craft since I was a boy,” Thomas was saying. “I was taught by my father, but my talent was evident even from my infancy.”

The crowd laughed softly, but by now some had guessed that little he was saying had any truth. Many were still watching Matthew instead, who only now was lathering up his man’s face, carefully avoiding his lips and his nostrils. Thomas nevertheless droned on like a street preacher, speaking about the difficulties and the rewards of the art, requesting the audience to observe how finely he shaved away his man’s bristle, and even started to offer a free tooth extraction to anyone who needed it.

So he did not notice how, with a few deft strokes, Matthew swiftly shaved his man’s face, then motioned for the Beadle to examine his work. 

“The winner … is Grantham!” the Beadle declared, and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. Thomas stared in disbelief. Matthew only smiled modestly as he wiped his razor clean.

“The man’s a bloody marvel,” a woman next to Mary said. “Never seen a barber so handy with a razor.”

Thomas, trying to retain his wavering dignity, offered his hand to shake. “I must admit I have finally met my match.”

Matthew shook Thomas’s extended hand. “I believe five pounds was the bet?”

“Yes, of course,” Thomas answered bitterly. He pulled out a small coin purse from his jacket and counted out the money into Matthew’s hand. “Good luck to you sir, until we meet again.”

He spun around and stormed behind the curtain, shouting for Evelyn to follow him. From inside, there was muffled cursing and blaming Evelyn’s incompetence for the defeat.

“You were marvelous, darling,” Mary said as Matthew dismounted the platform. “Even after all these years you still have it in you.”

Matthew glanced back at the curtain. “Do you think he’ll retire now that he’s been exposed as a fraud.”

Mary shrugged. “Perhaps he’ll set up shop somewhere else. But I hope Mr Napier doesn’t follow him wherever he goes. I don’t like seeing a grown man treated like some slave with no will of his own.”

Matthew turned around at feeling a light tap on his shoulder. “Congratulations, Mr Grantham,” said a well-dressed gentlemen. “May I ask, although you are new in town, do you have your own establishment here in London?”

“He certainly does,” Mary answered for him. She replaced Matthew’s coat around his shoulders. “Mr Grantham’s Shaving and Tonsorial Parlour, above my meat-pie shop on Fleet Street.”

“Above the pie shop, you say?” the gentleman said. “I do recall there being another shaving parlour there a long time ago.”

“The barber’s pole was already there,” Matthew replied, “so it seemed a convenient place to set up shop.”

The Beadle was nearby, and almost immediately after the gentleman moved away did he stroll towards Mary and Matthew. “Good afternoon to you, Mr Grantham, and … Mrs Crawley. This is a pleasant surprise, seeing you out and about.”

“I’m sure,” Mary replied coolly.

Matthew could sense that, at this moment, Mary was more likely to grab for his razor and cut the Beadle to ribbons. He held onto her arm and said, as civilly as he could, “Thank you sir, for overseeing that contest fairly.”

Tony Gillingham waved off the compliment. “I try to do my best for my friends and neighbors. It is my duty to be fair, after all.” He stopped suddenly, squinting at Matthew’s face. “Strange … I beg your pardon Mr Grantham, but your face seemed familiar to me.”

Mary forced out a laugh. “I doubt you know  _ him _ , what with him having always lived in Manchester. Only just arrived in London a few day ago.”

“I see,” Beadle Gillingham muttered, still glaring at Matthew. “Your establishment is on Fleet Street, you say?”

“Yes sir,” Matthew answered. “Above Mrs Crawley’s pie shop.”

The Beadle nodded appreciatively. “Excellent to hear, Mr Grantham. You will surely see  _ me _ there before the week is out.”

The pieces were finally falling into place. “You’ll be most welcome there, Beadle Gillingham,” Matthew smiled. “I guarantee you, without any charge, the closest shave you will ever know.”

With a tooth smile, the Beadle tipped his hat in farewell and strolled away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Before the week is out, he said?” Mary said, taking Matthew’s arm and leading him out of the market square. “My, this is moving rather fast.”

“The sooner, the better,” Matthew replied. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying not to imagine everyone singing the songs from the musical, but of course I'm failing.


End file.
